


Clint Barton's Wild America

by faeleverte



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Based on a True Story, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forests had...had chipmunks. And possums. And skunks. Venomous snakes. And probably coyotes and wolves and maybe panthers. Bears. It could have been a bear. Clint wasn’t going anywhere near <i>anything</i> that rattled around that frantically, that <i>loudly</i> without knowing what he was walking into, thank you very much. </p><p>He was willing to admit that he might be getting a little paranoid, but he <i>really</i> needed to pee, and there was no damn way he was pissing al fresco when there was a perfectly serviceable– if slightly musty– bathroom right there, just twenty feet away and behind a locked door or two. He’d pick the lock if he had to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint Barton's Wild America

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is the fic, second chapter is what actually happened. To me. Because even when I try to act normal, I end up being Clint Barton.

*****

Clint stumbled more than walked up the last hundred yards of driveway toward the “rustic cabin” (as Phil had called it) that was their safehouse for the duration of the current op. Technically, it had become a _former_ op about an hour and a half before, when Clint had stuck an arrow in a gun runner with unsavory habits. Not that Clint had ever met a gun runner with _savory_ habits. Whatever a savory habit might be. It was just that…

With a sigh, Clint realized he’d quit making sense even to himself. All he wanted was a hot shower, something semi-warm to eat, and a chance to relieve himself somewhere that he would be guaranteed not to come into contact with poison ivy. 

Again.

And, if he could get a few hours to sleep on a semi-soft surface and wake up to breakfast across the table from his best friend with occasional carnal benefits, so much the better. Actually, what would be _lots_ better would be not having to navigate the damn woods alone after sitting on a rooftop alone for the better part of four days. 

However, he was the freshest member of the team, having actually slept in a bed the night before while they all kept an eye on the target, so he’d been stuck with overseeing cleanup duty. Everyone else on ops and tactical had headed back to the cabin in the woods to claim all of the beds and get to sleep. Clint wondered if he’d be on the couch, or if Phil would be deeply asleep enough that Clint could crawl under the covers beside him and pretend he’d just been looking for a place to sleep and not one specific bed buddy.

Clint hated when safe houses were in the woods. Woods were...woodsy. And full of wood. And things that lived in the woods. And things that _grew_ in woods. And all leaves looked alike to him, as Agent “I love to go camping on the weekends, why don’t you!” Elgin had discovered to his and Clint’s mutual regret about four years before. There are places _no one_ should have to ask their handler to handle with the calamine lotion. 

Shaking off the memory of cold and chalky in places best not left cold _or_ chalky, Clint edged around to the side door of the cabin, knowing he’d left it unlocked when he’d gone out the afternoon before.

It was locked.

Clint swore under his breath and edged carefully through the knee-high brush alongside the log wall, holding his breath as he carefully set his feet down. Of course the door was most of the way down the front of the cabin, and of _course_ the porch light was off. He’d nearly reached the narrow front walk, protected as it was by a shallow wall to help hold back the snow in winter, when something rustled in a pile of dead leaves that had built up against the neat dovetail corner. 

Freezing, Clint fumbled with the thigh pocket on his cargo pants, hunting for a flashlight. His fingers closed around his phone first, and he scattered fletching feathers and twine, bullet casings, and a granola wrapper as he jerked it free, thumbing the power button and frantically scrolling screens until he found the flashlight icon. 

Forests had...had chipmunks. And possums. And skunks. Venomous snakes. And probably coyotes and wolves and maybe panthers. Bears. It could have been a bear. Clint wasn’t going anywhere near _anything_ that rattled around that frantically, that _loudly_ without knowing what he was walking into, thank you very much. 

He was willing to admit that he might be getting a little paranoid, but he _really_ needed to pee, and there was no damn way he was pissing al fresco when there was a perfectly serviceable– if slightly musty– bathroom right there, just twenty feet away and behind a locked door or two. He’d pick the damned lock if he had to.

Provided he didn’t suddenly find a particularly hungry bobcat or something that had figured out how to take down a full-grown man when it was feeling peckish.

He swung the light around, peering through the gloom, looking for movement or fur or the glint of fangs or eyes. Seeing nothing, Clint heaved a sigh of relief. Must have been a chipmunk. Squirrel, maybe. Possibly a gopher. Did gophers live in the woods, or only on golf courses? He took a confident step onto the pavement.

And froze.

Five feet in front of him, just at the far edge of his light beam, sat a toad. Or maybe it was a frog; Clint never had learned the difference. Whatever it was, it watched him, sullenly green and fairly small (although maybe it a big frog-toad; how the hell was he supposed to know?) and glaring beadily through glittering black eyes. Clint blinked at it, but it didn’t return the gesture. 

“Shoo.” Clint shook the light slightly, and the toad-frog hopped a foot further away, now facing away from Clint. Clint shook the light again. “Go on! Shoo!”

The toad hopped another two feet along the path, and Clint took a step toward it, gratified when it took another leap. 

Okay, this was fine. Clint could manage this. Just follow the toad along the path, scaring it out of his way, and get to the front door so he could jimmy the lock open, get inside, and _finally_ pee. He covered the next ten feet easily, only slightly slower than he would normally have gone. And then the problems started.

The toad took one large, slightly awkward hop, careening to the side and bumping against the logs of the house. The next jump took it two feet up the wall, but it crashed back to the pavement and began to, as near as Clint could tell, have a tiny amphibian panic attack. It leaped about wildly, often crashing into the cabin, mostly going away from Clint, never going to the other side where it stood a chance of jumping high enough to clear the wall and escape into the woods. Clint slowed down, trying to give it a minute to breathe so it didn’t have a tiny toadlike heart attack.

Really, though. _Could_ a frog have a heart attack? He’d have to ask the brains down in SHIELD’s labs when he got safely back to the familiarity of the urban jungle. 

The toad hopped again, nearing the front door, and Clint, for the umpteenth time since he’d entered the woods and heard sounds and rustling and saw slinking bodies, froze again.

The door to the cabin was set in a slight alcove, about two feet deep, and, at the frog’s current trajectory, it would get there before he would. And then it would be trapped. 

“Aww, toad, no.”

_hop_

_hop flail_

_hop_

_gone_

Clint held his breath and tiptoed toward the doorway, trying to keep his light low to keep from scaring the frog-toad into doing something drastic, like leaping into his mouth to make him hallucinate or whatever it was they did to defend themselves from small-town kids who never did learn how to deal with actual country life. The glow from the light inched into the recess, but there was no toad. Clint cocked his head and leaned further around the corner. No toad, no frog, no–

Aha.

A small, brownish-greenish bundle nestled against the storm door, beady eyes rolling fearfully toward the light. All Clint needed to do was rattle the door a little, and the frog would hop away from it, freeing itself from the accidental trap, and going on its happy little amphibian way. 

He slowly reached out his hand, light still trained on the toad-frog. For one moment, all was stillness, and then the shadow of his thumb moved across the toad’s head as it crossed in front of the light.

All hell broke loose. 

The frog began leaping wildly, leaving puddles on the doormat, drips on the wall, and scoring a perfect hit down the side of Clint’s leg. 

“NoNoNo! Goddamnit, you piece of shit!” Clint leaped backward, breathing hard. 

Fuck. How had _that volume_ of liquid come out of _that tiny_ of a body? Clint wasn’t sure that his very full bladder held that much. He retreated another three steps, pinching his lips together to keep from shouting down the whole cabin. All of the agents inside had worked as hard as Clint had, most of them not sitting in a cozy sniper’s nest for three days. Granted, that meant that they’d been able to stretch their legs while pacing and chasing and racing away from danger. Still…

No point in waking everyone up.

Clint headed back toward the back window he’d tried earlier. Maybe there was a way to jimmy it open. Or call for help. Calling for help might be a good idea. He’d just have them come to the back door, so no one would ever have to know he’d been bested by two-and-a-half inches of toad. 

Phil had been awake the longest, so Clint felt morally certain he would be dead asleep, and, for all that the man could snap away at a whisper of wind while an op was active, he’d sleep through an earthquake-nado-fire once things wrapped. Clint didn’t even bother dialing Phil’s number. Had nothing to do with wanting Phil to stay asleep at least until Clint was inside the house, finished with the bathroom, and sliding between the sheets. Nope. Not a bit. 

Instead he tried Jasper first. No answer.

Next he dialed Woo, Blake, Sanchez, Halliwell, and Elgin, in that order. Woo’s phone sent him straight to voicemail; up yours, Woo. Blake’s rang for about half the night (or so it seemed to Clint, as his bladder bitched him out while he waited) before it finally clicked over to the default “away from the office” message; bastard must’ve left it in his desk. Sanchez’s phone rang a more reasonable five beeps before it became apparent she wasn’t going to answer:

“Not here. Leave your message.” At least her message was succinct. Under his breath, Clint cursed her, her maternal line, her paternal line, and her ugly-ass boots that he secretly coveted.

The attempt at calling Halliwell ended much the same way, but Clint was too afraid of her to curse anything for fear she’d wake up _knowing_ and prank the toilet before he got to use it.

And then Clint took a deep breath, steeling himself for some hard-core mocking, and dialed Elgin.

_ring_

_ring_

Clint let out the breath he was holding and sucked in another, feeling his spine stiffen under the stress of what he was about to do. Because, when Elgin answered the phone, he would demand to know why Clint didn’t just pick the damn lock and go into the damn safe house. And Clint was a fantastic, well-trained spy. He could play a role like no one’s damned business. Clint, however, couldn’t actually _lie_ particularly well. Not for long. Not long enough to get through a conversation about being defeated by Mother Nature (again) with someone who had once helped Clint with a poison ivy reaction on his butthole. 

The lack of an answer was rather anticlimactic.

The windows on the cabin were all made from bullet resistant glass, sealed tightly to keep anyone from tampering with the locks. Clint knew that; hell, he's helped with the design when Phil oversaw the retrofit of most of SHIELD's safe houses the year before. Still, he had to try, so he heaved himself up to the wide sill, feeling around the edges for any gap where he could wedge a tool. Nothing doing. Of course. It was a Coulson window, and nothing was getting in that shouldn’t. Or, apparently, that should, but couldn’t. And Clint’s need to go was starting to edge into floating molars territory. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Clint slithered to the ground and straightened up slowly, pulling out his phone and again turning on the flashlight function.

Time to take on Toadzilla again.

Mentally girding his loins (and, thanks to his ancient and medieval weaponry and war studies, Clint actually knew what he meant), Clint decided he would not be alarmed by one wee toad. Again. He stalked toward the front walk, swaggered around the corner...and hurried as quickly as he could past the amphibian sitting before the front door, glaring at him, puffed up with the knowledge that he’d bested the Big Scary Light and the clumsy human that carried it.

Grumbling to himself about self-satisfaction in non-mammals, Clint gave himself up to humiliation and walked to the window of the small bedroom on the far front corner of the cabin. He turned half-away to scan the dark of the forest for movement as he rapped against the frame, then nearly had a heart attack when the reply came, loudly and immediately, in the form of a blood-curdling scream.

“Jesus, Jasper!” Clint ran a shaking hand over his hair after giving himself a quick fondle to the crotch to be certain he hadn’t _actually_ lost control of his bladder. “It’s me. Who the fuck did you think it was?”

“Fuck you, Barton,” Jasper hissed back, pushing the window frame up two inches. “We’re in the middle of the goddamned _woods_ , and you just pop up and start peeping in windows.”

“Open the window and lemme in, man,” Clint curled his fingers into the gap and heaved on the sash. It moved an impressive two millimeters. “The hell?”

“Intruder-proofed.” Jasper sounded far too smug for having just screamed like a frightened preschooler. He also sounded far too knowing for ass o’clock at night. “Just go let yourself in the damned front door. Or call your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Clint grumbled as Jasper reached for the top of the window. Clint managed to snatch his hands clear a second before it clicked shut, and he took the opportunity afforded by still owning functional fingers to flip Jasper off before he started to make his way back toward the front door and Frogula. 

The frog watched his approach with beady eyes.

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Clint told the toad, and it bunched itself up threateningly. “ Oh, stop that. I mean, we’ve never even spent the night together or anything. Just gone out a coupla times. Exchanged a couple–” He glared at the toad as it gave a small, aggressive hop. “Well, you know. Just some steam to blow off. _Blow_ off. Ha! But that’s hardly _boyfriend_ territory. I mean, he’s a friend. My _best_ friend, and he’s a boy. Well, a man. And–”

Clint realized he was justifying his relationship status to an amphibian and snapped his mouth shut. The frog probably didn’t give a damn about the traitorously over-affectionate heart of one lovelorn archer. He took another step toward the toad, and the toad backed up to the edge of the light from Clint’s phone, turning to face him. In doing so, Clint realized with a jolt of excitement, it left a path clear between Clint and the doorknob. 

He went still, tensing as he readied himself for a jump. The toad shuffled sideways, legs curling close into attack positions. Clint _assumed_ that was the attack position, anyway; he’d be preparing for an offensive move, faced with a dumbass unfamiliar with the territory like himself. Left hand reaching into a pocket to find a tool to jimmy the lock, right moving his phone steadily toward his mouth in order to bite it and free his other hand for lockpicking or defensive maneuvers, Clint sucked in a deep breath.

And leapt. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the frog flail wildly, drops of wet glittering through the air in all directions, and then his knuckles grazed the doorknob. Clint didn’t even look to see what he’d pulled out of his pocket, just began shoving it toward the lock, hammering on the door panel with his free hand. The knob jerked, and the door pulled away from his fist quickly and smoothly.

“Barton.” Phil Coulson stood just inside the doorway, soft and rumpled in a pair of plaid flannel pants and a worn-thin t-shirt, but still very much awake, as if he’d been waiting for something. Like he was waiting for Clint. He scanned Clint slowly from head to toe, and then reversed the path of his gaze, tracking much more slowly on the upward path, and Clint tried to convince himself that the warmth he felt was from the weight of Phil’s stare and not from knowing Phil’d been waiting on him. “How many times do I have to remind you to just take a key.”

Clint shook himself free from the daze he’d fallen into, hypnotized by the way Phil’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirt, and glanced over his shoulder as he pushed his way into the cabin. No lights showed under the doors of any of the bedrooms, and only the door to Phil’s room stood open. If he could just play cool with Phil, maybe no one would have to know that he’d fought the toad and the toad won. Speaking of toads…. Clint turned around to shut the door; wouldn’t do to let the damn thing in the safe house.

“Is someone following you?” Phil tensed beside Clint, reaching out toward the hidden panel on the wall that accessed the well-stocked armory that SHIELD built into all their hidey holes. 

“Just Mother Nature’s frog prince,” Clint answered, glancing out once more in the last few inches before the door swung shut. 

Damned toad hopped around the corner, beady little eyes fixed on Clint, _clearly_ planning on waltzing right on inside to continue its reign of terror. Maybe, given the peeing everywhere, it should be a _rain_ of terror. Clint slammed the door as best he could with only two inches for the door to gain momentum, shooting home the bolt before he sagged against the wall.

“Clint?” Phil sounded pinched in the darkness, and Clint wished he could see his expression. “Are you...Were you running from a _toad_?”

Scraping together whatever dignity he had left, Clint pushed himself upright to begin the last, easiest trek toward the bathroom. With a toilet. And _plumbing_. And hopefully a lack of Toadasaurus Rex. 

“Not just any toad,” Clint answered, still clinging to the tatters of whatever passed for his self-respect. “That is a weretoad. It _peed_ on me.”

He sniffed as with as much disdain as he could muster and flipped on the bathroom light as he shut the door behind him. The click of the latch cut off Phil’s throaty chuckle, and Clint sagged against the counter for the space of a heartbeat. His bladder reminded him sharply that he had business to attend to, and he hurried to get on with it.

Clint absolutely did not scream when he stepped out of the bathroom, nightblind as he flipped the light off, and a hand landed on his forearm in the dark.

“Your tiny toad problem has been dealt with,” Phil’s voice was warm and soft in the darkness, amusement trailing through every word. “I moved him over the wall, so he can’t stalk you when you leave in the morning.”

His breath puffed across Clint’s cheek as they mutually closed the gap between them, Phil’s hand shifting from Clint’s arm to his hip. Clint leaned forward, using muscle memory alone to tilt himself directly into Phil’s mouth. And, huh, they’d kissed enough for Clint’s body to remember where Phil’s lips were in relation to his hand against Clint’s side. That realization led to Clint breaking away, ignoring the wounded little whine Phil gave at the loss of lip contact.

“So, Phil, what...I mean, are you, like…” Clint couldn’t figure out how to ask without sounding like a lovelorn teenager. “What are you to me?”

He imagined that he could see Phil’s slow blink in the shadowy darkness of his face, the way Phil always blinked when he needed a minute to process a question and figure out what the asker really meant.

“Given that I just saved you from from a vicious toad attack,” Phil said slowly, the edges of a laugh leaking through into his tone, “I think I’m the brave knight to your damsel in distress.”

“Oh.” Clint pondered that for a moment and bobbed his head in acceptance, reeling Phil back into another kiss. It had just started to get good when Clint pulled away again.

“Dammit, Barton,” Phil protested, huffing a frustrated sigh.

“Is that like a boyfriend?”

Phil tried to hold in his laughter, and then utterly gave himself over to it, draping himself against Clint’s chest and muffling his chortles against Clint’s shoulder. When he finally giggled himself back to reason, he pushed himself upright and pressed against Clint’s mouth in a chaste kiss that felt oddly…fond.

“Very like a boyfriend, Clint,” Phil finally answered. “If you want it to be.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.” Clint took Phil’s hand in his own, guiding him gently across the dark cabin, around the furniture whose location he’d memorized on entering the first time. “So let’s go sleep so we can get the hell _out_ of here in the morning, yeah?”

“Whatever you say, damsel.” Phil took the lead just before the bedroom door, tugging Clint toward the bed. “Watch out for dragon-toads in your dreams.”

Clint stripped down to his underpants and t-shirt, grumbling to himself about ridiculous boyfriends and their infernal teasing, lazy agents who couldn’t get out of bed to help out a colleague in need, and the woods and all the evil creatures that lived within it. He couldn’t _really_ be upset though. Seemed like he’d gotten himself a prince already. 

And he hadn’t even had to kiss the frog.

*****


	2. faeleverte's Wild America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Directly as told to friends via messaging. Because I can't do it better than this.

So I got home from knitting last night  
Go to the back door to go in...and someone locked it  
Of course, I'd only taken my car key, so fine, whatever. Start to head around to the front walk  
And there's this rustling in the leaves  
LOUD rustling

And I'm thinking it's like a rabid squirrel or a possum or a venomous snake or skunk or cougar or bear...  
MIGHT have been feeling a bit hysterical by then...

But I REALLY HAD TO PEE, okay!  
Tried to go at the restaurant, and, well, the bathroom needed attention  
So I dig out my phone for the light and start peering around  
Nothing is slithering  
There's no fur  
No glittering, rabid eyes  
No slavering fangs  
In fact, there's nothing

So, okay, fine. Must've scared off the vampire wolf-bear-cougar  
And I round the corner to see...  
A little hop toad. 'Bout 2 inches in all

And he sees the light and hops away  
And I start up the walk

And he hops away from the light  
And I follow after

And then...  
He starts to list off course  
Banging into the wall of the house and flailing around  
And then he HOPS INTO THE ALCOVE WHERE MY FRONT DOOR IS  
I kinda edge up on him and peer around the corner  
He's all snugged up against the screen door  
Tight enough that I'm afraid to knock for fear a kid'll open the screen and I'll have toad guts on my porch  
So I figure I can reach around the corner and shake the door handle enough to scare him into hopping out of there  
But, as I'm reaching out, my thumb moved across the light, casting a shadow on the toad  
And he FREAKS THE FUCK OUT  
There's a toad having some kind of aerial seizures, peeing wildly all over the place

So, I'm woman enough to admit defeat, and I head back to the back door  
And try calling my family  
NO ONE ANSWERED  
Tried Oldest Son. Tried Mr. Tried Oldest Daughter. NO ANSWER  
So.  
Hmm  
Okay. Maybe the toad has left  
And I head back around the front of the house

That goddamned toad is still sitting in front of the door, only in the MIDDLE of the alcove  
All poofed up like he's so fucking proud of himself for chasing off the Big Scary Light  
So I edge quickly past him, hoping to avoid any more toad piss

Decide to HOPE that the small kids were sent to bed on time  
And I get over to the girls' window and say "Punkie, honey?"  
And she replies:  
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
And I'm going, “uhhh, Punk? It's mama. It's JUST MAMA!”

And her sweet little face appears in the blinds with a BIG smile like nothing had ever frightened her  
And I say, "Is Big Sister in bed?"  
And she shakes her head  
And I say "Then go get her for me. GO GET SISTER!"  
And Punkie says, "No."

First time in her ENTIRE FREAKIN' LIVE she refuses to get out of bed  
Usually I can't keep her in with duct tape  
Not that I've actually TRIED duct tape, mind you

So I look back down the walk, and the toad has moved forward just a little bit  
And I start heading toward him, because I'm going to scare that fucker back the way he came  
And, of course, when I get close, we have more freaking out toad  
And more pee (still none from me, thankfully)

Although I'm not going to lie and say I DIDN'T contemplate peeing back on him, since he'd gotten my leg  
Fucker  
And he gets far enough down that I manage to LEAP into the gap past him, rip open the screen, and hammer on the door  
Tyrannosaurus had heard me talking to Punkie, so he'd climbed down from his bed to find out why the HELL mom is outside the window instead of inside the house  
And he let me in  
I turned back to close the screen...  
AND THE FUCKING TOAD WAS BACK AND TRYING TO FOLLOW ME INTO THE GODDAMNED HOUSE

**Author's Note:**

> With epic thanks to [Kathar](http://kat-har.tumblr.com) for her help in making this from a strange incident in my life to a readable (and hopefully funny!) Clint/Coulson story! 
> 
> Come play with [me on tumblr](http://faeleverte.tumblr.com).
> 
> As ever, I love your kudos and comments and I hug them and love them and pet them...and call them George.


End file.
